I do not remember the circumstances only that it happened. Seems like back in the 1940's and 1950's the WCTU was very active. For those of you who do not recognize the acronym, it stands for Women's Christian Temperance Union. They campaigned to get rid of alcohol. Seems like there was a woman named Carrie Nation who went into the bars with an axe and did a lot of damage. The WCTU was started back in 1874 by a woman named Frances Willard along with another lady named Annie Wittenmyer. In later years it expanded to include labor laws, prison reform and womens suffrage. Willard died in 1898.
Having briefly read her history, I am thinking she may have very well been a lesbian way before it was acceptable to be of that persuasion! That is neither here nor there and has absolutely nothing to do with my journey into the WCTU at the tender age of 9.
What I do recall is that my 5th grade teacher saw potential in my poetry writing at that early age and encouraged me. Her name was Miss Burgess and she lived with another teacher named Miss Rinehart. (If memory serves me correctly.) The WCTU was having a meeting at a church out in the country between Nickerson and Plevna. I think the area was called Huntsville. My job was to memorize a poem and recite it for the ladies.
Now back in those days, women were expected to stay home and keep the house and kids and if the husband chose to get roaring drunk and beat the living shit out of them, it was their duty to submit! That was our mentality then.
I do not remember the poem, but as I recall it started, "In a castle gray, by a pounding sea, on a cliff where the white gull flew lived a lonely boy and his uncle....." And it was about a young boy who lived with an alcoholic Uncle as he was an orphan. I remember it was very sad and troubling and after my recitation (which was perfect) the women were ecstatic and very pleased with my performance. The poem had been so troubling to me that I had erased it from my memory and only think about it on occasion. It seems in the poem the Uncle either threw the boy over the cliff or threw himself over the cliff, thus showing the evils of the demon rum.
I do not recall much about the WCTU, but I do know and probably still have a piece of paper some where that states I am or was an honorary member. I do recall thinking of that group on occasions when one of my dear sweet husbands was "in his cups" and kicking me around the room leaving me a shattered woman sobbing in a corner. Those were the good old days!
So why am I thinking of this today? God only knows. Most of the time I never recall the bad parts of my life, but it seems that with the climate in our world today and the violence that people exert against each other in the name of race, sexual orientation, poverty, immigration status, and any other reason they can find to hate in a world that should be filled with peace and love, there is something missing. Seems like it might be compassion.
But we are all a product of our past, so I have learned to be more compassionate. I have learned that no matter what I am feeling, I must be tolerant of others because I do not know what demons they are dealing with in their mind. If we could all just open our eyes and learn, wouldn't the world be a beautiful place?
Some scars stay with us forever and no matter how deep we bury them, they are just a heartbeat away. Sometimes I just have to retreat and lick my wounds because I know they are there. Very few of my scars are seen by anyone. That does not make them any less real. I thought about volunteering at the battered women's center, but the very thought gives me flashbacks. How could I look into a face that mirrors my very soul and help? Isn't that sad?
Having briefly read her history, I am thinking she may have very well been a lesbian way before it was acceptable to be of that persuasion! That is neither here nor there and has absolutely nothing to do with my journey into the WCTU at the tender age of 9.
What I do recall is that my 5th grade teacher saw potential in my poetry writing at that early age and encouraged me. Her name was Miss Burgess and she lived with another teacher named Miss Rinehart. (If memory serves me correctly.) The WCTU was having a meeting at a church out in the country between Nickerson and Plevna. I think the area was called Huntsville. My job was to memorize a poem and recite it for the ladies.
Now back in those days, women were expected to stay home and keep the house and kids and if the husband chose to get roaring drunk and beat the living shit out of them, it was their duty to submit! That was our mentality then.
I do not remember the poem, but as I recall it started, "In a castle gray, by a pounding sea, on a cliff where the white gull flew lived a lonely boy and his uncle....." And it was about a young boy who lived with an alcoholic Uncle as he was an orphan. I remember it was very sad and troubling and after my recitation (which was perfect) the women were ecstatic and very pleased with my performance. The poem had been so troubling to me that I had erased it from my memory and only think about it on occasion. It seems in the poem the Uncle either threw the boy over the cliff or threw himself over the cliff, thus showing the evils of the demon rum.
I do not recall much about the WCTU, but I do know and probably still have a piece of paper some where that states I am or was an honorary member. I do recall thinking of that group on occasions when one of my dear sweet husbands was "in his cups" and kicking me around the room leaving me a shattered woman sobbing in a corner. Those were the good old days!
So why am I thinking of this today? God only knows. Most of the time I never recall the bad parts of my life, but it seems that with the climate in our world today and the violence that people exert against each other in the name of race, sexual orientation, poverty, immigration status, and any other reason they can find to hate in a world that should be filled with peace and love, there is something missing. Seems like it might be compassion.
But we are all a product of our past, so I have learned to be more compassionate. I have learned that no matter what I am feeling, I must be tolerant of others because I do not know what demons they are dealing with in their mind. If we could all just open our eyes and learn, wouldn't the world be a beautiful place?
Some scars stay with us forever and no matter how deep we bury them, they are just a heartbeat away. Sometimes I just have to retreat and lick my wounds because I know they are there. Very few of my scars are seen by anyone. That does not make them any less real. I thought about volunteering at the battered women's center, but the very thought gives me flashbacks. How could I look into a face that mirrors my very soul and help? Isn't that sad?
